


at dusk (i will think of you)

by amb-roses (overtture)



Category: Professional Wrestling, World Wrestling Entertainment
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Dorks in Love, Haircuts, Intimacy, Introspection, Kissing, M/M, and dango has it down to a science, ask to tag, sometimes youve just gotta sit and think about how much you love someone, theyre dumb and gay and pretty but also really in love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-30
Updated: 2019-03-30
Packaged: 2019-12-26 13:16:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18283058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/overtture/pseuds/amb-roses
Summary: Tyler decides to get his hair cut. Fandango is more worried than he probably should be. Knowing this doesn't lessen it, unfortunately.





	at dusk (i will think of you)

**Author's Note:**

> some soft lads for the soul, based mostly on the pictures of tyler with his hair cut at a live show that went around recently! this. got out of hand but. soft as hell. dumb title is dumb. probably will edit this later

Fandango shifted anxiously in his plastic chair, fidgeting with the keys in his pocket as he reined in the urge to just stand up and just walk in.

But Tyler had asked him to stay and Fandango knew better than to contest a– his– prince.  

Even when said prince was just as nervous as he had been as he entered. The thud of the door behind him shuffling shut was as ominous as it was tacky.

He was still half-sure it was the hometown vibes. Small town, smaller population, summer heat. Maybe it was the heat. Maybe it was impulse, Tyler finally going insane without his deputy at his side on the road.  

His shoulder doesn’t pulse as it would’ve a few months before, thankfully. He might be back at his side soon, if preemptive exercises were to be believed. Right now, it’s just getting back into wrestling shape, getting it used to taking impact again before he jumps back into the fire. As much as he loves wrestling, his lifeblood, just as easy as breathing is, as dancing is, it’s… nice. It’s nice to sit and soak everything in, as broken of a bird he was the past few months. Nice to sit and admire everything outside of the never-ending rush of wrestling.

Always another pay-per-view, always titles, always competitors to fight or challenge for contendership, always another show, another rushed car ride, another mystery to solve.

But it was nice to stop and breathe it in. How long had he been doing this? Longer than Tyler? Longer than he dreamed, certainly, longer than anyone thought he’d last. Farther, too. More than anything though, he’s wanted to be happy, and now that he can confidently sit back and say that he is? Well, damn. Getting the time to sit back and think of it in the first place is a gift. A gift that lets him admire and appreciate what he’s gained, what he’s lost, what he’s loathed and most importantly, what he’s loved, even at the cost of a stressed-out Tyler where he couldn’t physically reach to relax and comfort.

Tyler Breeze was a gift and a joy, and Fandango was going to hold him for as long as he would allow in an iron grip. To find the not-so-perfect partner, one he never thought could exist, was more than he could ever ask for and expect to receive.  

He loves Tyler more than anything. It makes him want to be tender. It makes him want to hide in his neck or shoulder and make the blonde giggle at the nuzzle of his scruff, but sigh in something somewhere between flustered and content, completely and wholly vulnerable. They are both Prince Pretty and Fandango, but any fear or bravado melts away in proximity. Their masks mesh well, similar complimentary fabrics and tones, while their soft insides are just the same in a different way.

Tyler isn't perfect by any means, nobody is, but it doesn't take away what a heart he has. Fandango feels lucky to know him, lucky to have his affection returned just as passionately.

Being able to stop for a while was a nice change, a nice break, even though he'd been injured for most of it. But even now, the business burns in his blood, driving an itch up his spine, under his skin, to wrestle. Dancing alone while he waited for clearance to start running the ropes again was a decent enough balm, but the specific drive of his passion still lurked, soothed but still present.

It was surprisingly lonely. Every morning to himself, every evening leaving a space to his right and eventually, hesitantly, shuffling over to the center. It's empty.  

It made his heart beat furiously in his chest, even faster when their eyes met at the airport after a spotty few months of passing nights and close holds before he had been swept back into touring. Tyler had a week or two now to rest, and of course, had insisted they head to his hometown in Canada to get away for a bit. He’d been tense and stressed, coiled, always locking back up no matter how many times Fandango temporarily wound him down.

He had suddenly declared that he needed a change that evening. Peace of mind, he’d said.

And now, he was getting his hair cut.

Fandango would always love Tyler Breeze, he knows, even if he had a bad haircut. Not that Tyler would go anywhere that he knew would give him something bad, but… He knew the cut was going to be significant. A lot of hair off. Which would admittedly be strange. He just didn’t know how much.  

What kind of style would it be? Would he still be able to run through it in long twists of his fingers? Would he still be able to braid it in the way he knew his lover liked? Would he still be requested to help brush it all out, lock by golden lock after long, tangled showers? It felt selfish, but… he’d miss the long hair, having an excuse to bask in the reflective golden stands as he straightened and tightened his long ponytail or tucked it up into a bun.

Most of all… he hoped it helped. Tyler was incredibly insecure at worst and conscious at best. A bad haircut, too much change, and Fandango worried… he worried.

The door next to him shuttered open, startling him out of his thoughts. Tyler stepped out into the afternoon light, hands twitching in the pockets of his hoodie as he turned towards him.

He’s the most beautiful man Fandango has ever seen.

It’s just a hoodie, a hoodie, some sneakers, and jeans a few sizes too big to be his own, stubbled and golden. His hair glistens, glitters in individual golden strands, woven through with darker tones that are almost auburn and flaming in the slice of dusky light he steps out into. He looks at peace, older than he was when they met with only lightning to his temples and sides, a more defined crinkle to his eyes and brow, the imprinted corners of his lips to mark the time. Laugh creases, smile lines, crow's feet from joy and bright ring, stage lights.

Something twists in his chest as Tyler steps up, meeting his eyes briefly under his lashes before glancing away, a soft hue burning up his cheeks and points of his ears. He’s nervous, painfully. The hair’s shorter though, balanced precariously between a crew cut and an undercut in the length of the top, gelled back.

He reaches a hand out in permission and Tyler leans forward in answer, corner of his lips quirking despite his obvious worry. At first, it’s just a hesitant hand on top of his head, feeling the same hair under his palm, and then carefully retracting it and pausing before digging his fingers in from the root, through the stiff of the gel to find the soft underneath. He gives it a small ruffle to the man’s soft exhale.

He runs through it again, the strands strangely short, familiar but not. Tyler leaned into his fingers as he gave his scalp a short scratch, tension bleeding out of him.

“I like it.”

Tyler's smile was wider, now. Face creasing in one-part age, two-parts familiar joy, not entirely reassured but getting there. “Yeah?”

“It's very you, Breezy. I'll take some getting used to, but… very nice.”

“It's definitely a change, but I think I really like it. Not as much hair to deal with, y'know? And now, I don't have to worry so much about it getting in the way or getting caught on stuff in ring…” He ran his own fingers through the buzz of the back of his head, ever so slightly upwards at him. Any remaining tension escapes in a content sigh, a fond smile of his own blooming across his own face.

Tyler leans up towards him and he tilts his head down to meet him, the feeling of their lips meeting sparking affection that purrs in his chest when his lover steps closer, cups his face in his hands, rough from the ring but as soft and smooth as a wrestler-model could be. Gentle hands that hold his jaw like he’s something precious, kissing him like he’s being gifted the most valuable possession one could own. Like he’s something to be cherished, delicate fingers and the fainted impression of calluses pressing, brushing, holding. He feels _loved._

His own hand gravitates from Tyler’s neck to the back of his head, testing the feeling of that lack of hair. The blonde rattles once under the other hand that had landed at the soft of his flank, nipping his lip before leaning back, still in orbit. He jitters again, biting his lip now against laughter.

“What?” Fandango pouted, leaning back as Tyler’s palms left his face and smoothed over his stubble, caressing fondly before linking behind his own neck. “Don’t laugh at me.”

Tyler shook again, a sharp bark of a laugh chasing it this time. “Nothing, just… you’re pouting.”

“I’m not pouting,” He huffed, glancing away sulkily as the laughter started up again, louder now. “Stop laughing, it’s not pouting! You’re the one who was pouting first!”

“Don’t worry, Dango. It’ll grow back,” he snickered, tongue in cheek. Fandango pursed his lips and took Tyler’s jaw in hand, tilting him to the side and craning to press a featherlight brush of his lips to the back of his ear, one of his most sensitive patches of skin.  

He felt the blonde’s laughter catch sharply in his throat as he continued, the curve of his neck, once, twice, the crook of his neck blending into the joints of his shoulder, the crest of muscle as it became arm. He smiled into his upper arm as he pulled his limp arm out to trail a breath into the crook of it, a brush against his rapid pulse as he carefully bent his arm up and unclenched the fist. A chaste kiss to his palm, turning his hand over to press another tenderly to his middle knuckle. He met Tyler’s eyes, still holding his lips to his hand, and smiled.

Tyler hiccupped, ears a vibrant crimson, a crooked, toothy smile spreading across his face.

Fandango flushed but kept his gaze unabashedly. “You are the most beautiful man I have ever seen, and your haircut is a fraction of that, but a fraction, nonetheless. I love it, Tyler.”

The blonde tittered, surging forward and eagerly pressing a few pecks to the corner of his mouth, worry gone completely.

“You sure know how to make a man feel like a million bucks, don’tcha? I ought to cut my hair more.” He pressed his lips together to curb his grin. “You could’ve just said that from the beginning.”

Fandango pressed one more lasting kiss to his cheek, giving the opposite an affectionate brush of his thumb. “Not pouting anymore though, huh?”


End file.
